


Chalkdust

by rufeepeach



Series: Chalkdust [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, non-magic Storybrooke, teacher!Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is Bae’s teacher, and Mr Gold develops a crush</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a Storybrooke that really is an entirely normal town: no magic, no Curse, no ftland backstory.

Bae has managed to catch a stomach bug. Gold feels bad, now, about forcing him into school anyway. The receptionist called a quarter hour ago, and by the sounds of it, his son’s lunch is all over most of his classroom.  
  
He is torn between sighing and letting the boy suffer a bit before collecting him - because he’d told him that that ice cream was way past expiration and the stupid boy ate it anyway - and running as fast as his legs can carry him to the school to make sure he’s in one piece.  
  
He settles for the former: Bae will live.  
  
Still, he can’t keep the little shake of urgency from his otherwise placid voice when he reaches the front desk, and asks after the location of his son.  
  
At least, when he is lead to the medical room by a rather overworked-looking receptionist, his boy is not alone in his suffering. There is a woman sat with him, pressing a cold towel to his forehead and murmuring something soothing.  
  
“Excuse me?” he interrupts, perhaps a bit abrasively, but he’s touchy about other people looking after his son. Even when it’s entirely well-meant; it’s something else he can blame his ex-wife for. “I’m here to collect my son.”  
  
“Oh, good,” the woman turns, entirely unfazed by the irritation in his voice, and smiles. She is young, no older than her mid-twenties by his estimation, dark haired and blue eyed. Pretty, and he would guess not particularly bright, but at least Bae hadn’t been alone while he chucked his guts up. So she has at least one good point in his book. “Look, Benjamin, your father’s here.”  
  
Bae looks up, weakly, and his skin is a sickly shade of grey and green. “Hey, dad.”  
  
“You’ve really made a mess of yourself here, haven’t you, Bae?”  
  
“It wasn’t his fault,” the woman interjects, as she - very helpfully, Gold admits - aids Bae in sitting up without collapsing again, and helps him to his feet. “Children get sick all the time.”  
  
“He ate the ice cream when it said it was three weeks out of date,” Gold replies, a little gruffly, as he takes his son from her and wraps a steadying arm around his shaking shoulders, “I’d say it’s exactly the little cretin’s fault.”  
  
“He’s a smart boy,” the woman argues, while she gathers Bae’s coat and bag from the floor and hands them to Gold, “I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson, if that’s the case.”  
  
“Is he likely to make a mess of the car on the way home?” he asks, trying to ignore the little flash of… something he feels seeing someone stand up to him. Everyone in town either avoids him entirely or looks at him with fearful suspicion, but all he sees in this stranger’s eyes is a warmth for his son, and a slight annoyance at his lack of sympathy. Perhaps she has more of a mind than he gave her credit for.  
  
He probably owns her house, he thinks, a young woman like her, working what can’t be a very well paid job at the elementary school. He could make life very hard for her, and she has to know that, but all she does is gently argue back.  
  
It’s interesting; refreshing, almost.  
  
“No, I think the worst has passed.” She says, and smiles gently to Bae, “but if not, please try not to make as much of a problem in your father’s car as you did in my classroom.”  
  
Her classroom? At once, the pieces click into place. The school year only began a few weeks ago; he hadn’t yet been introduced to his son’s new teacher, although he’s heard tales of her strict punishments for rule breaking, and her willingness - sometimes insistence - to stay behind and help the stragglers with their homework.  
  
“You’re my son’s teacher.” He nods, “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, I’m sure.”  
  
She smiles, and he must be imagining the little flush in her cheeks when he shakes her hand, “Likewise.” She nods, “Now get this little one home before he decides to ruin my shoes.”  
  
“Of course.” He smiles - a genuine smile, because even without a little anonymity there was not a spark of reluctance or fear in her eyes or her handshake, and it’s really rather nice - and leads his son back to the car.  
  
—  
  
“What’s your teacher’s name again, son?” Gold looks at Bae from across the table, the parental consent forms for the school trip to the Mayor’s office spread out in front of him.  
  
“Mrs French.” Bae mumbles around a mouthful of toast.  
  
Gold stiffens, tries not to show his son what kind of information he’s just given away, “Mrs?” he questions, frowning, “I didn’t know she was married.”  
  
Bae shrugs, “Maybe it’s Miss, I forget.”  
  
“Ah,” because of course Bae has no idea the marital status of his teacher: he’s twelve, he has other things on his mind. Why would he care? For that matter, why should Gold himself give a damn if the woman has a husband or not? She is good with Bae, he can see that with his son’s rising grade point average, and she was sweet and nice and not at all intimidated - strange in itself, that - the last time they met.  
  
That was a month ago: he’s barely thought of it since. Well, most days.  
  
He’s glad Bae has a teacher he likes who likes him back.  
  
But that didn’t mean Gold cares about her personal life, one way or the other.  
  
“I think it is Miss,” Bae says, thoughtfully, his mouth miraculously empty of food, “I think Grace Hatter-Swan asked, and she said something about waiting for the right guy.” He shakes his head, “It was girly stuff, I wasn’t paying much attention.”  
  
“Of course.” Gold feigns disinterest, returns to the consent forms, “You know her first name, lad?”  
  
“Belle.” Bae replies, immediately, “Robbie Hudson looked them all up last week.” He smiles, that childish smirk that means Gold’s about to get a call from the principal’s office about his son’s misbehaviour.  
  
“Bae…”  
  
“They should have set a better password.” Bae shrugs, his attention to the conversation waning. Gold can’t help but feel a little proud that he’s raised such an intelligent little miscreant, even if it does mean he might end up with a letter home. His own youth makes Bae look like a saintly angel child, and if Bae is smarter than his old man - smart enough not to get caught, where Gold ended up in detention more nights than not - then good on him.  
  
He smiles at his boy, their shared conspiratorial smirk, and Bae goes back to his breakfast. Gold looks down at the forms, and writes carefully ‘Miss Belle French’ in the appropriate box.  
  
Perhaps Bae is wrong; perhaps his lovely teacher is happily married and starting a family.  
  
Perhaps ‘lovely’ isn’t a word Gold should be using, even in his own mind, to describe her. She’s the best thing to happen to Bae’s grades since he was five years old, since his mother left, and he seems rather attached to her in his aloof, pre-teen boy way.  
  
And even if Gold was free to get to know her, to think of her as ‘lovely’, she’s still a child in her twenties and certainly wouldn’t welcome the advances of a middle-aged single parent.  
  
‘Lovely’ is certainly not a word Gold should be using. Even if it does perfectly describe her.  
  
—  
  
He offers to chaperone the field trip.  
  
He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. Mayor Mills is hardly his closest friend at the best of times, and he has work to do and a business to run to keep food on the table.  
  
Except most of their income comes from renting most of Storybrooke’s lower-income housing, and a fair amount of business property, and people will continue to live and work whether Gold is there or not.  
  
So he volunteers as chaperone. And is glad he did, when the venue changes from the Mayor’s office to the zoo at the last minute.  
  
Even if Bae’s teacher were a balding man in his forties and not an enchantingly pretty young woman, he would need to be there. There’s no one in their right mind who would let his son loose around zoo animals without his father to keep an eye on him. Bae doesn’t misbehave when Gold is there: he knows there’s little he can do to truly earn his disapproval, but the boy seems unwilling to act out with him around.  
  
The thought, when it comes, that his boy behaves not out of respect for the rules but respect for him, brings a smile to Gold’s lips. He raised Bae almost entirely by himself, Tessa having left when the boy was only just out of diapers, and Gold’s son is bright enough to decide for himself who to respect and who to ignore entirely.  
  
Gold knows Bae will be on his best behaviour, if there is a chance he will be caught red-handed by his father. The same cannot be said if the news will reach him only after the fact.  
  
“Mr Gold!” a bright voice startles him as he sits alone on his seat at the front of the bus. The boys and girls of Bae’s class and the two beneath sit behind, the rest on the second bus. He nodded once to his son as he climbed aboard, and Bae recognised it with a wink. The boy no more wants the shame of sitting with his old dad any more than Gold wishes to burden him with it.  
  
The other parents, Mr Hatter and Sheriff Swan, don’t speak to him.  
  
Everyone is either afraid or wary of him, and while these two are certainly in the latter category, they are too busy trying not to make out like teenagers on the back seat - his daughter and her son sit only seats away, after all - to notice him.  
  
“Yes?” he turns, irritation lacing his voice although the newcomer has disturbed nothing of importance, and finds himself looking right into a pair of deep blue eyes, and a welcoming, cherry-red smile.  
  
“I didn’t expect to see you here!” Miss French - for he will assume her unmarried until proven otherwise - chirps, settling herself next to him. He freezes, unsure of what to do when confronted with the very woman who pops into his head when his mind is idle - and whom he has sworn to keep away from for that very reason - and waits to wake up.  
  
Then she frowns, and he realises that he’s not asleep, and that he must have been staring at her while she expected an answer, “You are Benjamin’s father, right?”  
  
“Yes,” he nods, a wry smile on his lips now that the irritation has been replaced by an entirely ridiculous fondness, “Bae’s mine.”  
  
“Oh, good,” she sighs, smiles, “I have such a problem with names, you see, and I didn’t want to be having some stranger on the bus with us!”  
  
Ah, a stranger: she doesn’t know who he is. “Indeed not.”  
  
“Oh, dear!” she fiddles her fingers in her lap, and he wonders how much of his disappointment must have shown on his face, “I didn’t mean… I mean, you just looked completely mystified… fuck…” she clamps a hand over her mouth, giggles, and he tries and fails spectacularly not to be entirely enchanted.  
  
“Miss French, correct?” he smirks, on familiar ground, at least, with people who don’t know how to react to him, “We met when Bae got that nasty stomach bug.”  
  
“I remember,” she nods, and he feels a burst of joy at the immediacy of her response. She isn’t lying: she does remember him. “That was a hellish thing, that one.” She sighs, smiles, seems almost to rally herself, “He’s not sick again, is he? That’s not why you’re here?”  
  
“No,” he laughs, shakes his head, “No, I’m more worried for the animals than my boy.”  
  
“He has a wicked mind on him, that one,” she agrees, cheerfully, “I don’t mean any offence, Mr Gold, he’s wonderfully imaginative and so bright. But his sense of humour does lend itself to… trouble.”  
  
“Yes,” he smiles, “I half considered legally changing his middle name to that, just to save time.”  
  
She laughs, and it’s like the most wonderful music he’s ever heard, “What is it now?”  
  
He grins at her, “Orville. Make sure you use that when you’re scolding him, he hates it more than anything.”  
  
She lets out a surprised little giggle, “What? No! I couldn’t!”  
  
“He thinks very highly of you,” he tells her, “And he’s quick to forgive. The shade of umber his face goes is also sight worth seeing.”  
  
He thinks he’d probably answer any question she could think to ask, so long as it would make her laugh like that. Her eyes light up when she smiles, the dark curls around her face laugh and the curve of her red lips is almost inviting.  
  
“I’ll leave that to his parent, thank you very much.” She says, “And I hope you’re getting better at throwing out expired foodstuffs before he can get his hands on them.”  
  
“I thought the boy would be able to read a simple date, by now,” Gold grumbles, but despite the teasing in her voice - no one teases him, no one makes fun of him, not ever - he cannot summon an ounce of annoyance at her tone - “And I was right, apparently.”  
  
“Oh? I thought it was food poisoning?”  
  
“It was.” Gold replies, mildly, “But they’d made a game of it. Something they saw on television, I think, he and the Hudson boy. Daring each other to eat the most disgusting or out of date foods they could find.”  
  
Miss French laughs, and he watches with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Really?” she says, when she’s gotten over her helpless giggles, “Those boys. Everyone knows that they hacked into the database the other week as well, you know.” She confides, and Gold’s eyebrows raise.  
  
“Really? My boy? Now why would he possibly do a thing like that?”  
  
“Because they could, I think,” she shrugs, “Principal Vincent is on the warpath, but she can’t pin it on them.”  
  
“But you know it was definitely them?” he asks, eyes narrowing, “Why not report it?”  
  
She shakes her head, “Benjamin is… he’s a special boy, Mr Gold. And the school’s curriculum doesn’t allow much room for letting the bright ones flourish properly. They didn’t do any harm, and they learnt a lot about the IT system in the process.”  
  
“That’s a very… interesting approach to the rules.” He’s a little impressed: teachers in his day were quicker to throw the book than to understand the cause of troublemaking.  
  
“I know a bad kid when I see one, Mr Gold. Bae isn’t a naughty child; he doesn’t act out to get attention or harm anyone else. He just doesn’t have any other outlet for his intelligence, so he tests the rules to see how far they go.”  
   
He stares at her a moment, entirely dumbfounded: how does this woman - who has known his son for only two months, and then within the confines of a class of twenty - understand his boy so perfectly?  
  
“He’s not… he’s not picking on the other kids then, is he?” Gold can’t help but ask the question: his greatest fear is that Bae become a bully.  
  
He could, he knows this: Bae is bright enough and has a loose enough respect for the rules that he could easily become a tyrant of the playground, and that is something Gold won’t stand for. Bae will not become his father, he will not intimidate and inspire fear in others. It might have taken decades, but Gold has learnt his lesson on that score.  
  
“Quite the opposite,” Miss French assures him, gently, “Look.” She turns around, points to his son where he sits near the back of the bus. The Mayor’s son - little Henry Mills - sits beside him, and they’re both looking down at something Gold cannot see.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Henry was having some problems a few weeks back with a boy in Mrs Nolan’s class, before Bae stepped in. Now, no one looks at Henry sideways without knowing that they’re messing with Bae as well.”  
  
He’s more than a little proud of his boy, at that thought. At his age, Gold had only been concerned with his own safety; he never came forward to help anyone else.  
  
“I told you he’s a good kid,” Miss French turns back to him, smugly, having proved her point, “So I’m willing to overlook some minor, harmless offences. For now.”  
  
The bus arrives at the zoo only a few minutes later, and he is swept off with Miss Blanchard and a group of children to look at various caged animals.  
  
He is stuck with a thought, racing around in his mind, that doesn’t seem to want to settle down: Miss Belle French might be the first adult he’s ever met - Bae’s own mother included - to not categorise his son as either a troublemaker or an attention-seeker, or as simply odd.  
  
Bae needs that kind of understanding in his life, from someone who isn’t his family, someone he can trust to be objective.  
  
Unfortunately, the thought comes equipped with memories of her bright eyes and warm smile, the shine of her dark curls in the sunlight and the slight floral scent of her shampoo, or perhaps it was perfume.  
  
—  
  
He starts dropping Bae off at school, rather than letting him walk himself.  
  
He claims that, after the incident with Anne Lucas’ garden gnome, it’s a matter of public safety that Bae be watched carefully at all times. And, to some extent, this is correct.  
  
He says this to his son, when he asks for the hundredth time why he suddenly has an escort every morning. Gold has always been a fairly hands-off parent, not too bothered with things like the school run and fixing pancakes for breakfast, whatever overly-attentive PTA parents do. Bae doesn’t seem happy with the answer.  
  
But Gold says it more to himself, almost as a mantra, as he pulls up in front of the school and spies a gaggle of young teachers, chatting by the gate, keeping an eye on their young students.  
  
Miss French has her back turned as she chats with Mrs Nolan and Miss Blanchard. She wears nothing at all bright or noticeable, no flashy red dress or stilettos; nothing beyond the muted shades suitable for the classroom.  
  
And yet, in her dark jeans, long purple jumper and high brown boots, he still stares for far longer than is reasonable.  
  
He remembers her bright eyes, from both times they’ve met, the warmth in her smiles and her genuine affection for his son. Her anxiety to make a good impression, their second meeting, which he thinks had nothing to do with his probable ownership of her apartment.  
  
He tries not to focus on little details, these days when he catches glimpses of her, and doesn’t acknowledge the blatant truth that seeing her - even from a distance - is often the highlight of his long, tedious day.  
  
But Bae starts middle school next year, and then he’ll begin to get the bus every morning to the next town over, and Gold will… what will he do?  
  
He’ll be able to open the shop earlier, freed from his duties as minder to a young would-be delinquent. Yes, it will be a relief to stop being an unpaid taxi service every day to his ungrateful preteen son, and more money shall be made.  
  
He ignores the little stab of regret, of disappointment, at the thought.  
  
It would be wrong, entirely wrong and on the bad side of creepy, to admit that he drops Bae off every morning simply to see her.  
  
Even if it’s a little bit true; even if those days when she smiles at something in his direction and he can see the lights in her eyes, the dimples in her cheeks, light up the whole world.  
  
He was never a romantic, and that was one of the reasons Tessa left. But he finds himself unable to look away when she tosses her long dark hair back, when she wears the shade of lipstick that makes her lips look so full and soft, as if she’s just been kissed.  
  
Would she look that way, he wonders, if he had just kissed her? If the taste of her was on his tongue, and his hands woven in those soft curls?  
  
She is Bae’s teacher; the boy would be psychologically scarred if he could see half his father’s thoughts.  
  
It doesn’t stop him from watching her for that half minute every morning, or planning in his head moments when he could surprise her at work, catch her in the street or even invite her to be with him on purpose.  
  
Sometimes he imagines bringing flowers, red roses for passion or white for the innocence she radiates. Sometimes all he wants is for her to be there in the morning, cooking the breakfasts he’s doomed to forever char beyond edibility, smiling and laughing with him and his son. The freedom, even in dreams, to come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, for her to be his in the most wonderful of ways, makes his heart pound.  
  
Other times - the day she wore a skirt and black tights and he could see the length and smooth shape of her legs; the time she bent close to his car to fuss with a preschooler and he caught a wonderful glance down her blouse - his thoughts are less innocent.  
  
He fantasises, for that is the correct word here, for hours in his shop about throwing her against the lockers of the school, crushing his mouth to hers and swallowing her moans, her little sighs of passion against his lips.  
  
He wishes to take her against the desk in her classroom, a fantasy born the day he drops off Bae’s lunch for him and sees her leant against it, hands on the desk, going over the class’s book critiques in her rolling, Australian accent.  
  
He wonders what his name would sound like, in that low, rippling voice of hers.  
  
He stops dropping Bae off two weeks after he begins: he barely knows the woman, and he is coming dangerously close to stalker territory.  
  
 Bae is glad to have his walks to school back - the boy likes his time alone, Gold understands that - and Gold goes back to avoiding his son’s teacher like the plague.


	2. Chapter 2

He hasn’t caught even a glimpse of Miss French over a month, and he thinks he’s getting better.  
  
He cringes, a little, over his former behaviour: he had acted as if he were a schoolboy with a crush, as if he were a child in her class daydreaming over his pretty teacher. If Bae acted that way toward a girl, he would never hear the end of the mockery from his father, and yet he had acted no better.  
  
But then, five weeks almost to the day, he’s preparing to sort the sign outside his shop - the storm played havoc with it, and it needs fixing - when he comes out of the front door and crashes headlong into a pedestrian.  
  
She falls, and he catches her right before she hits the ground. It’s icy out today - winter hits hard and fast in Maine, and late November in Storybrooke can be treacherous. There’s no telling the damage the poor woman could have done to herself if she fell wrong.  
  
It’s only when he pulls her upright - his arms still around her, an oversight perhaps - and looks down to see who it was he caught that he recognises her.  
  
He just stares. For a moment, he’s caught off-guard by her once again, and he just stares.  
  
Her blue and lilac woollen hat covers the top of her head, her dark curls tumbling down from beneath to rest about her shoulders. She looks up from his hands on her forearms, and her eyes meet his.  
  
There’s just a moment, a long moment, where neither of them say a word.  
  
She must just be shocked by her fall and unnerved by his eyes on her, he thinks, in the parts of his mind not occupied by relearning the face he’s been avoiding for so long. That’s why she stares back; that’s why she doesn’t step back instantly, pull far away from his grip.  
  
“Thank you,” she nods her head, as if trying to prompt him into movement, and smiles a cautious kind of smile.  
  
“It’s no matter.” He smiles, his sanity returned in a rush, and steps back. He curses himself - it’s as if he’s never found a woman attractive before, as if he truly is a teenager with a crush. He can at least do better than this.  
  
“I shouldn’t have… I was distracted,” she says, apologetically, as if she’s embarrassed, “Sorry. I should be more careful.”  
  
“The ice is difficult around here, Miss French,” he excuses her with a kind smile, a smile he doesn’t use often enough, “I assume you’re not native to this far North?”  
  
“Oh, no,” she smiles wider, “In Sydney we never had these kind of conditions. I need to remember that ice is slippery.”  
  
“Yes, it is slippery.” He sounds out the word, grinning, “The Mayor is usually better about getting the pavements gritted when it’s icy, to prevent these kinds of accidents. They can be fatal, if one is unfortunate.”  
  
“Well, thank you for catching me, then.” She smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out. He needs to grow up or move away from her, or he’ll say something stupid and scare her away.  
  
“I’ll have a word with the Mayor tomorrow,” he says, “Make sure she grits out here properly. Can’t have people hurting themselves right outside my shop.”  
  
She laughs, shakes her head, “You’d get quite the reputation.”  
  
“I believe I already have, Miss French,” he doesn’t want to remind her, but he keeps waiting for the moment when the fear and dislike he sees everywhere dawns in her eyes, and the sooner the better. He already cares far too much for her.  
  
“So I heard,” she nods, “Bae tells a different story; I tend to believe the kids before I listen to gossipy parents.”  
  
He won’t stare at her, not again, but damn her: it’d be easier not to gape if she’d just stop astonishing him.  
  
“Well, my boy knows who pays his allowance,” he brushes off her near-compliment gruffly, as she bends to pick up the tools he dropped in the collision and hands them back to him.  
  
“Perhaps,” she nods, but her smile doesn’t falter, “What’re you doing out in the cold anyway?”  
  
“The storm last night wrought havoc with my signage,” he points to the empty rail where his wooden sign usually hangs, “I need to set up a new one.”  
  
“I don’t see a ladder…”  
  
“Two trips, Miss French,” he explains, “The ladder is next.”  
  
“Oh.” She nods, frowns, and he examines her closely.  
  
“Something wrong, dear?”  
  
“It’s icy, you just said so yourself.” She points out, “One slip and you’d do some damage to yourself no matter how you fell.”  
  
“I’ll be careful, Miss French,” he promises, not sure why he’s smiling. Perhaps it’s the idea that she’d care, even just a little bit, if he hurt himself. She does look more anxious at the idea than he’d expect, for someone he barely knows. For anyone beyond his own kin, for that matter, and of them only Bae really gives a damn what happens to him, “Don’t worry.”  
  
He turns to go back inside, but is startled into stopping by her hands on his arm.  
  
“Do it after the gritting,” she suggests, almost seems to plead, “Please?”  
  
“I’ve done it a hundred times, Miss French,” he frowns, and she removes her hands, as if his suit has burned her palms. “It’ll be fine.”  
  
“You say that now, but then you’ll fall and end up in hospital, and I’ll feel responsible for not stopping you.”  
  
“Then consider me fairly warned, and any harm that befalls me is on my own head.”  
  
“Just… everyone knows this is your shop. Leave it for today and come have a coffee with me or something. Let the ice melt.”  
  
He wonders if she knows that she essentially just asked him on what, to all intents and purposes, would look like a date. She, of course, is only concerned for Bae - as any good teacher would be - and doesn’t want an old man to kill himself on the pavement. This is an attempt to keep him from the ladder, nothing at all to do with wanting his company.  
  
“I’m sure Bae wouldn’t want his father and his teacher in cahoots.” He says, finally, but he knows that his voice is strained with the force of trying not to agree right then and there. Her face falls, and he feels guilt churn his stomach. “Some other time, perhaps?”  
  
“Yes,” she looks almost crestfallen, and he wonders belatedly if she - relatively new to Storybrooke and most likely not yet settled with a group of friends - is simply hoping for company. “Sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t have asked.”  
  
“I just meant… Alright, I’ll make you a deal.”  
  
“Oh?” Her eyes brighten a little with interest.  
  
“I will leave the ladder for better conditions, on the grounds of safety, and you’ll let me buy you a coffee at some point in the future.”  
  
She beams at him, really and truly beams, and his breath catches. He covers with a handshake, the deal struck, and she just keeps on smiling. “The future, then.” She agrees, “I’ll leave you to your work.”  
  
He nods, doesn’t follow the impulse to beg her to stick around, keep him company in his shop and release him from the tedium of his daily business.  
  
So she leaves him one last smile, and walks carefully off down the street.  
  
He keeps an eye on her until she’s out of view, just in case she slips again. She seems a little awkward on her feet, and he’d hate for any harm at all to come to her.  
  
—  
  
He comes home from work, a few days after his meeting with Miss French on the sidewalk, to find his son not alone in their home.  
  
Henry Mills and Grace Hatter-Swan sit on the carpet with him, legs crossed neatly beneath them. Bae seems to be teaching them blackjack, using the jar of pennies they save on the mantelpiece, and some ancient playing cards.  
  
“Okay, banker has nineteen, pays twenty and over!” he declares, and there’s both a little humph of disappointment and a squeal of excitement at the result.  
  
“Sorry Henry, better luck next time,” Bae says, “Grace, you bet three right?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Here you go.” He hands over the coins, and Grace adds them to her neat little stacks.  
  
Gold, watching from the doorway, almost laughs aloud at the expression on his son’s face. In the briefest moment, before he is seen watching and Bae switches to a smile of greeting, he was staring at Grace like he couldn’t bear to stop.  
  
“Dad!” he cries, “You’re home!”  
  
“Business was slow,” Gold explains, “Thought I’d close up early and go out for dinner, if you’re up for it?”  
  
Bae grins, “Sounds great, yeah!”  
  
Gold nods, “Alright, we’ll go in an hour. Are your friends coming too?”  
  
Bae looks to Henry and Grace, “You wanna come with?”  
  
Henry looks a little doubtful, “My mom doesn’t even know I’m here,” he admits, “She’ll want me home by seven.”  
  
“Emma’ll be alright with it,” Grace smiles, “Can I just call home to check?”  
  
“Go ahead, the phone’s in the hall.” Gold gestures behind him, and Grace nods and leaves to call her parents.  
  
He doesn’t miss the little flash of pain on Henry’s face when his birth mother’s name is mentioned. Emma and Regina’s custody battle is infamous, and the strain must be getting to the little lad by now. His step-sister has the power to simply call her house and know Emma will be there; Henry can’t know if he’ll be allowed by Regina to even speak to her this week.  
  
“I’ll call Mayor Mills myself if you want, Henry,” he offers, finally, the look on Bae’s face - which should be another signal of theirs, which screams ‘do something, I need help here!’ - too much to take. “I’m sure she’ll understand.”  
  
He’s the largest property owner in town; he could cause major problems for her if he felt like it. Regina might hate his guts, but she’ll not arbitrarily deny her son his friend.  
  
Even she must see that Bae brings good things for Henry; even she must understand that her boy needs a friend.  
  
She has to be on her best behaviour: her next court date is coming up and her legal position as his mother is precarious at best. Especially with Emma now remarried, property-owning and financially stable.  
  
Henry’s face lights up, however he tries to hide it, “Really?”  
  
“Sure, as soon as Grace is done on the phone.”  
  
Bae smiles, gratefully, and turns back to Henry, “How about a game of snap while we wait?”  
  
The boys settle into their game, and Gold waits to make his call.  
  
Regina is, unsurprisingly, more than a little bit belligerent about the whole idea. “Are you trying to take him away from me too?” she accuses.  
  
“Alas, no,” he sighs, “I have my hands full enough with my own son, thank you. I’m asking for you to let Henry come and eat with us at Granny’s Diner, that’s it. I’ll even drop him off right after.”  
  
“With the Hatter girl?” she snarls.  
  
“Grace Hatter-Swan may well be in attendance, yes,” he allows.  
  
“Is Emma Swan behind this?” he can hear the paranoia in the Mayor’s voice, and the vicious little thrill of triumph he’d felt falls away. He can’t imagine how he’d react, if someone were trying to take Bae away from him.  
  
“No,” he sighs, “Bae just likes your boy, that’s all. Wants to be friends with him, and that might involve spending time outside of school.”  
  
“With the Hatter girl.”  
  
“She… she’s Bae’s guest as well.” He doesn’t want to discuss what might or might not be happening with his son’s emotions - or at least hormones - with Regina, so he settles for saying, “We’re going to go and eat, and I’ll send him back to you right after. You can come to the diner and join us, if you really want.”  
  
“No, it’s fine.” She says, immediately, but her tone has softened a little, the panic in her voice receded. “Just make sure he’s home by nine, alright?”  
  
“Of course. Thank you.”  
  
“And…” she sighs, “Say hello to him for me.” He can hear an uncharacteristically sad, almost wistful, note in the Mayor’s voice, and he wonders not for the first time if this custody battle doesn’t have more than one victim.  
  
“Alright.” He agrees, “Nine and no later.” He hangs up, and an hour later they’re off out.  
  
He ends up walking ahead with Henry on their way to the diner, which is a little awkward considering how little he knows the lad. They end up discussing school - Henry’s near top of his class, like Bae - while Bae and Grace walk behind.  
  
He sneaks glances back every once in a while - Bae nods occasionally, his eyes rarely, if ever, leaving the girl’s face. Gold is certain that if a tree were to grow in Bae’s path, the boy would walk right into it rather than look away.  
  
He has, at least, been a little less foolish the few times he’s seen Miss French.  
  
A little.  
  
At least Bae is nursing a crush that may one day come to something. Gold cannot foresee any future where Belle French would do more than smile at him in the street.  
  
Even if she did care enough to stop him getting hurt; even if she did invite him out for coffee.  
  
“Are you alright, Mr Gold?” Henry asks, frowning up at him.  
  
“I’m fine, lad, why’d you ask?”  
  
“You look the way Jefferson sometimes looks at Emma, and not in a happy way.”  
  
“You’re imagining things, then.” He brushes him off, “Jefferson’s a very different person from me.”  
  
“He gave me a top hat for my birthday.” Henry says, and Gold cannot tell if the boy is happy with this gift or simply puzzled.  
  
“Jefferson Hatter gave you a top hat?” Gold gives a low whistle, “He must like you, boy, he doesn’t give his wares away to just anyone.”  
  
“He says he’ll teach me how to make them when I stay with them this weekend.” He says, and it’s the first time all night Gold has heard him sound genuinely happy and hopeful.  
  
He’s seen Regina with her son: he can understand why Henry would prefer his birth mother. But he can’t help but feel a little stab of pity for the Mayor at how thoroughly she has lost the boy.  
  
This is why he never tried to control Bae: the worst thing in Gold’s universe would be for his son to resent him the way Henry does Regina.  
  
They arrive at the diner, and get a booth by the window. Henry sits with Bae on one side and Grace on the other, while Gold sits on the edge, an empty space beside him.  
  
Bae, for all the cow-eyes he continues to make at Grace, entertains Henry well enough to cover it. The three of them fall into an animated conversation about the latest series of some cartoon, and Gold settles in for some people-watching.  
  
He’s not thinking about anything, in particular, until he catches the eye of one of the women sat at the bar.  
  
Miss French looks back at him, smiles in greeting and raises her drink in cheers. Gold smiles back, raises his own drink and takes a sip. The soda does nothing to take the edge off the rush of emotion he feels at seeing her, but at least it keeps his hands busy.  
  
“Oh, hey, Miss French is here.” Grace follows his gaze and sees her teacher, “You wanna go say hey, Bae?”  
  
“I think Dad does…” Bae smirks, and Gold feels he’s been caught doing something illicit.  
  
“Hush now, boy, and eat your dinner.”  
  
Bae just gives him an entirely too knowing look and goes back to his food.  
  
Gold sneaks glances to her throughout the meal, but never has the courage to invite her over, or go to join her. He wishes he could, he really does, but he has rules and he’s keeping to them.  
  
If he doesn’t tempt fate, stays away from her as much as he can, then Bae won’t get hurt and she won’t be able to reject him.  
  
He’d rather never know if she feels anything for him at all, than ask her and know without any doubt that she does not. For how could she have any feeling for him? She’s no older than twenty-eight and beautiful, and he’s… well, he’s middle-aged and a single parent.  
  
So he doesn’t speak to her, does nothing more than look, and he knows he’s imagining - dreaming, more like - the feeling of her eyes on him whenever he looks away.  
  
—  
  
“Are you alright, papa?”  
  
Bae’s looking at him with concern in his eyes, and Gold - who has spent the last half hour, since they dropped Grace and Henry at their homes - raking hands through his hair and clutching his cane hard - knows he must look a picture.  
  
“I’m fine, son,” he lies, because Belle French’s image won’t leave his mind, the last look they shared as she left the diner - as if she wished he’d speak to her, as if she was lonely and it was his fault and yet she did not blame - is burned behind his eyelids. “I just… I need some fresh air. Will you be alright if I go for a walk?”  
  
“We just got home.” Bae frowns, confused, “But yeah, I can put the TV on and do some homework.”  
  
“Great,” Gold sighs with relief, the idea of being able to clear his head on his own suddenly unbelievably enticing, “I’ll take my mobile, I’ll be back in an hour, two at most.”  
  
“Alright,” Bae nods, and gives him a hug, which Gold returns willingly. His son will soon be too old to clutch at him like the child he still is, but for now it’s wonderful to still be able to hold him close. “I love you.” His voice is muffled in Gold’s suit, but he hears it all the same.  
  
They say this whenever they leave each other; ever since the day Bae almost got hit by a car on his way home, and they met in the emergency room. He’d been fine, but there is a certain last words thing that needs keeping to.  
  
“Love you too, son,” he murmurs, and pulls away, “Now, don’t burn the place down.”  
  
“Fine.” Bae smirks, “Don’t go stalking any teachers.”  
  
“Off with you, trouble.” He pushes his son back into the living room, and goes back out into the night.  
  
He walks for what feels like hours, the pain in his leg a welcome distraction from his thoughts. He can’t even handle being near her now, apparently, without believing her as enamoured with him as he is with her. He’s delusional, he knows that, and yet he cannot stop.  
  
It starts to rain after a half hour, once he’s in the woods. He has his torch, and the trail is one he’s known since he moved here, but it’s raining and suddenly this walk is the worst idea imaginable.  
  
He reaches the road after another fifteen minutes, huddled under his umbrella and freezing, his leg playing hell in the cold and wet, miles from home and only a little bit lost.  
  
He thinks of calling Bae, but he’d only call Sheriff Swan and he doesn’t want to face her laughter in this condition.  
  
He’s close, though, to just swallowing his pride and calling her directly, when headlights appear and a small red car pulls up beside him. “Hey.” The window rolls down, and Miss French is smiling at him, “Need a ride?”  
  
He is about to make a biting comment - the last person he needs seeing him in this condition is her - but he holds it back. He needs help, and she’s better than Emma, at least.  
  
“Yes, indeed. Thank you.”  
  
She shifts her bag from the passenger seat and he opens the door and sits down with a little squelching noise.  
  
“How long were you out there?” she asks, and he feels she’s laughing at him. Somehow, he doesn’t mind one bit, so long as she’s smiling.  
  
“Too long.” He shivers.  
  
“I’ll get you home, Bae must be worried sick!” she starts them off again, doing a neat little three-point-turn and driving them back toward town.  
  
“He knows I’m out, and I have my cell phone.” He replies, “I’m sure he’ll do nothing more than laugh when I return as I’ve been half-drowned.”  
  
She laughs, glances toward him, runs her eyes up and down his bedraggled form, and nods, “Not your finest hour, I must admit.”  
  
“Bloody Maine weather,” he grumbles.  
  
“Always raining or about to rain,” she agrees, cheerfully, “But Scotland must be the same, right?”  
  
He has to agree with that, “Pretty much. Not Australia, though?”  
  
“No,” she laughs, shakes her head, “It’s more sun than anything else. Warm.”  
  
“Don’t you miss it?”  
  
“I like the trees here, the forests,” she sighs, and he can see the princess behind her eyes, a girl in a fairytale wandering in the woods, “The beaches back home weren’t exactly my scene.”  
  
“But you must have had a life back there, Miss French. Friends and family? What was it that made you choose to come to a small town in Maine?”  
  
“My grandfather… he lived here, he died and left the house to me. And I didn’t want to be a florist in Sydney, so I jumped at the chance.”  
  
She’s not one of his tenants. He’d never thought to look; the realtors handle most of his buying, selling, and rent collection, but he’d just assumed. Somehow, the realisation comes as a large relief: there is nothing for her to gain from his friendship.  
  
She honestly wants to spend time with him.  
  
The ball of anxiety in his stomach clenches: it has been far too long since he knew how to be around women, particularly young and attractive ones.  
  
“And it’s Belle, by the way,” she smiles, “Miss French is what my students call me. I’m just Belle.”  
  
Gold couldn’t imagine her ever being ‘just’ anything, but he smiles, nods, “I’m… I’m Rum. Cameron, actually, but… yes, my name is Rum.”  
  
“Rum…” she smiles, and he nearly dies at the sound of his name on her lips, “I like that. Sweet, with a pleasant after-burn.” She smiles at him, teasingly “Suits you down to the ground.”  
  
Sweet? She thought him- “Yours… yes, yours is perfect. Belle. Beautiful, correct?”  
  
He was always rubbish at compliments, but at least blunt-force honesty is a decent fallback. “In French, yes. But I’ve never lived up to the name.”  
  
“I beg to differ, but it’s a matter of opinion, I suppose.” He says, and he sees her blushing. She blushes when he tells her she’s beautiful: she is either modest or greatly pleased, and most likely a bit of both.  
  
“Well, in any case, I’d prefer it to Miss French.” She smiles as if to break some tension between them.  
  
“Alright then, Belle. What made you decide to teach?”  
  
“I like the sound of my own voice.” She confides, and he laughs. “No, I just… I like feeling like I’ve done something at the end of the day. Some kid is a bit less miserable or ignorant or just… they know something they didn’t. It’s nice.”  
  
He nods, staring at her some more. One day, he thinks, she’ll be able to say something like that and he won’t gape at her. But not tonight.  
  
They pull up outside his house, and she stops the car. She turns to him, smiling, “Now, don’t go walking out in any more rainstorms, okay?”  
  
“It wasn’t raining when I went out.”  
  
She laughs, ducks her head, and he follows her almost unconsciously, trying to see her eyes. “You could have caught your death.”  
  
“You seem to think me rather fragile, dearie. I’ve survived this long.”  
  
“And Bae, too,” she nods, smiling, “It’s a marvel.”  
  
“I don’t often walk at night,” he admits, as if trying to prove some point about his ability to look after himself, “I needed to clear my head.”  
  
“Oh, is something wrong?” she’s somehow closer than she was, and her eyes are so wide with concern he thinks he might drown in them.  
  
“I have… a lot on my mind, at the moment.” She’s not helping matters. If she leans toward him any closer, says anything more to indicate that she may care for him even just a little, he’s going to kiss her. And that would be such a phenomenally stupid idea, but he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.  
  
And yet, he couldn’t move from his seat if he wanted to.  
  
“I see.” She nods, “Anything in particular?”  
  
“Um…” he’s at a loss for words: he can’t lie, not to her, and yet the truth is too mortifying to contemplate. “Just… no, nothing specific. Life’s just a bit hectic at the moment.”  
  
“Oh,” she looks down, and he can’t be imagining the little flicker of disappointment in her eyes, “Yes, I suppose so.”  
  
“Why were you driving so late?” he asks, despite how desperately he needs to end this conversation and leave the car, despite how stupid it is to keep talking to her.  
  
“Same reason,” she laughs, but it sounds more hollow than it usually does, a little lost, “Too many thoughts.”  
  
“Specifics?”  
  
She sighs, “I’m kind of… nursing this massive crush on a guy who obviously isn’t interested.” He feels his heart sink, and morbidly starts to wonder who the lucky bastard is, and how slowly he can kill him for being so ungrateful. To have Belle’s heart and reject it would be the greatest sin imaginable, he thinks.  
  
“Oh?” He can’t keep the disappointment off his face, and hopes she doesn’t see it, “Who is he, then?”  
  
She sounds as if she might cry, “Oblivious, too,” she nods, “Never would have thought.”  
  
“Obliv-“ he stops mid-sentence, unable to even think it possible. He wants to ask a hundred questions, wants desperately to know for certain if she means what he thinks she does, but something - some deep, primal part of his brain - takes over.  
  
He reaches across, and cups the back of her neck with his hand, pulling her toward him fast enough that she cannot pull away, so he can press his lips to hers softly, slowly. He sucks her lower lip between both of his, caresses her mouth with his and catches the little moan she makes in the back of her throat, as her palm comes up to hold the side of his face.  
  
She is kissing him back, as soft and tender and tentative as he, and it is the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt.  
  
When they pull apart, he cannot keep the smile from his face. She stares at him, as if she cannot understand at all, “What is happening?”  
  
“I… I kissed you…” he says, as the enormity of what just happened dawns on him, “I’d like to do it again, if… if that works for you?”  
  
She makes a kind of choked little giggle, “Go ahead, kiss me again. It’s definitely working.” There’s a shine in her eyes that wasn’t there before, somewhere between laughter and some kind of ecstatic joy, and he couldn’t refuse her if he tried.  
  
He kisses her again, and this time she gasps against his lips, allows him to explore her mouth with his tongue, to find the little places that make her shudder and moan. She tastes of rainwater, of tea and honey, and he could stay like this forever, with Belle’s tongue stroking against his, her hands on his face and his tangled in her hair, forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Much as he would love to invite Belle inside, after they’ve been kissing and smiling at each other for nearly twenty minutes, Gold knows that that is not an option. Bae is inside, and even though the boy appeared to not be openly hostile to the idea of his father and his teacher, Gold is not going to force him to deal with it tonight.  
  
He doesn’t even know himself if this has a future, despite how much he hopes it does.   
  
“I ah,” he says, after kissing her once more just because her eyes are so bright, and then again as an excuse to run his hands again through the dark, soft waves of her hair, “I should be going inside.”  
  
“Go inside…” she frowns, as if she is as dazed and confused by their activities as he is. Then it dawns on her, “Oh, yes!” she presses a hand to her mouth, stifles a giggle, “Bae! Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, yes, by all means!”  
  
He smirks at her: she seems as flustered by their behaviour as he, and he’s tempted to move her hand out of the way so he can kiss her again. But if he does that, they’ll be right back where they were, and he’ll never be able to leave her.  
  
“Bae’ll be fine, don’t worry,” he says, “But he’ll have seen the car pull up nearly half an hour ago, and may have guessed half of what’s going on.”  
  
“Fuck…” she breathes, and he’s never told her how adorable - and, admittedly, somewhat hot - he finds it when she swears. “Oh, god, sorry, I’m trying to stop swearing, I promise!”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He grins, brushes a strand of her hair back from her face. She leans into the brush of his fingers on her face, and he runs his thumb along her cheekbone, just to see her nuzzle against his hand, and her eyes flutter closed. “It’s sweet.”  
  
“I was mortified,” she admits, “When I finally had a chance to come and talk to you without your son being sick all over the place, and the first thing I did was curse in front of the kids.”  
  
“I think that was when I decided I liked you,” he says, without even thinking about it. His brain went to a dazed, happy place about the time her mouth met his, and he’s left with simple truth, and the desire to have her looking at him like that always. “More than just a innocent little schoolteacher.”  
  
She snorts, delicately, at that notion, and pulls him in by his tie for a scorching kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue. She pulls away grinning, as his eyes blink open and his mind scrambles for something resembling intelligent thought. “That dispel any doubt?”  
  
“Definitely not innocent,” he nods, “Good. Good thing.”  
  
She giggles, “You could… you could go inside on your own, be with Bae.” She means ‘should’, surely.   
  
“Yes.” He nods, and manages to get his hand onto the door handle before his own voice stops him, “But… I’m buying you that coffee I owe you tomorrow.”  
  
“I’ll be in Granny’s at eleven.” There’s a funny little note to her voice, disbelieving and dazed, but happy. There is definite happiness there.  
  
He takes her by surprise - himself, too, - and whips around to kiss her just once more. She’s like alcohol or cigarettes: one taste is never going to be enough.  
  
Then, before her hands can re-tangle in his hair, he pulls away and grins as he leaves the car. She waves, smiling, as she drives away, and he knows his grin is probably somewhere between shellshocked and lovestruck. He can’t help it: when at least half of all one’s dreams come true at once, it’s difficult to act as if everything’s normal.  
  
Bae is curled on the sofa with his laptop, typing intermittently between little pinging noises. “Good walk?” he asks, without looking up.  
  
Gold realises, with a smile of relief, that his son hasn’t noticed a thing. “Not really: I got caught in the rain. Had to get a lift back.”  
  
“Oh?” Bae looks around, sees he dazed smile on his father’s face and the rumpled, bedraggled nature of his hair, and frowns, “I told you not to go stalking.”  
  
“Not stalking if she found me, is it?” he defends, grabbing a towel from the downstairs bathroom and coming to sit in his armchair, his soaked jacket discarded by the front door.   
  
“Oh, god,” Bae mutes the pinging coming from the computer and rolls his eyes, “What did you do?”  
  
Gold can’t even pretend innocence, “I got a lift home from Miss French: she was driving by when I reached the road.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, boy?”  
  
“Why’re you so happy about that?”  
  
“It, ah,” he frowns, not at all certain how to broach this subject with his son. He needs to ask permission, somehow, before he can enter into any form of relationship with Bae’s schoolteacher, but this is awkward at best, “She…”  
  
“Oh, my god.” Bae sighs, exasperated, his nose wrinkling in disgust “You guys… made out, didn’t you?”  
  
“…Maybe.” He cringes: this conversation was not supposed to go this way. Bae is far smarter and more aware of the world than any twelve-year-old has any right to be. “I don’t want to upset you, son,” he almost begs: he couldn’t stand for anything, even Belle, to come between him and his son, “But I like her a lot…”  
  
“Yeah,” Bae sighs, “She likes you too. You couldn’t… dad, she’s my teacher! You couldn’t wait until I was in middle school?”  
  
He flinches, “I didn’t plan for anything to happen ever, as a matter of fact.”  
  
Bae slouches into the seat cushions, shooting a somewhat half-arsed glare to his father, “Fine.”  
  
“Fine? What’s fine, Bae?”  
  
“You and her… kissing and things. Fine. Just don’t do it in front of me, ok? I do not need to see that. I’m scarred for life enough as it is just thinking about it.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, son.”  
  
 “And don’t dump her and let her fail me as revenge.”  
  
“Bel- Miss French wouldn’t do that!” He defends, offended on her behalf.  
  
“I don’t wanna find out.” Bae returns, ominously, “Don’t screw this up.”  
  
“I’ll do my best.” Gold sighs, glad to have his son’s - somewhat begrudging, but genuine - blessing. Bae nods, satisfied, and goes back to his computer. The pinging begins again in earnest, and Gold’s curiosity is piqued.  
  
“What’re you doing anyway, Bae?”  
  
“Just…” his son goes an interesting shade of red, “IM-ing.”  
  
“Oh?” Gold feigns obliviousness, “With whom, pray tell?”  
  
“Just… a friend.”  
  
“I see.” Gold nods, “And would this be a rather pretty blonde friend who happened to be eating with us this evening?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“My son’s got his first girlfriend,” Gold sighs in somewhat-mocking satisfaction, “How sweet.”  
  
Bae’s embarrassment turns to defensiveness within moments. He scoffs, “So says the man who spent his night making out with my teacher.”  
  
Gold frowns, “Touche.”  
  
—  
  
He’s in the diner at eleven am sharp the next morning - actually, it’s more like quarter to eleven when he shows up, but he doesn’t want to risk being late and disappointing her - and glances about for a seat that’s a little out of the way.   
  
He sits in the booth by the window, with his newspaper, and ignores his tenants and unhappy acquaintances as they scuttle by.   
  
They don’t like him because he is a ruthless landlord, when it comes to the rent and the rules being kept to, and because he’s not exactly endowed with a generous and loving nature to make up for it. He’s not Storybrooke native, and after the stunt he pulled to get Emma elected Sheriff - the former Sheriff, Graham, died in a car accident only months after Miss Swan moved here, and Gold saw the opportunity to get one over on Regina and took it - what little trust they had for him is gone.  
  
Were he the Mayor’s pet and a pushover, they would love him until the day he dies.  
  
But he refuses to do the bidding of City Hall, and he has an even more relaxed view of the law in relation to his goals than even his son. He doesn’t allow the cheaters and the liars of this town to screw him over on rent or anything else.  
  
And they hate him for it.  
  
He’d expected Belle to feel the same, but then she is as foreign here as he, and has had no reason to deal with him for rent or anything else.  
  
She might be the one person in the whole town he’s not managed to offend.  
  
He’d like to keep it that way.  
  
She arrives almost on the stroke of eleven, and glances around the diner cautiously. As if she’s afraid he won’t be there; as if there’s a chance in Hell that he would miss this.  
  
But then she sees him, and this time he can see the happiness in her eyes he always managed to miss before. She practically lights up when their eyes meet, and she comes to his table without even looking to anyone else.  
  
“Hi.” She says, quietly, as she sits down opposite him, and her smile is so soft and warm he could curl up and die in it.  
  
“Hello,” he smiles back, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how they’re staring at each other, how sickeningly romantic they must look to everyone else. “How are you?”  
  
“I’m… yeah, I’m good,” she ducks her head and smiles, “How about you?”  
  
“I think I owe Bae a new bike or something,” he grins, “But yes, I’m doing well.”  
  
“Oh dear!” she giggles, “How’d it go, last night?”  
  
“He… he’s fast becoming an eye-rolling teenager, by the looks of it. He’s afraid I’ll offend you somehow and you’ll fail him as revenge.”  
  
Her mouth falls open, “Really? Untrusting little…” she pauses, “What did you call him?”  
  
“Many things. ‘Cretin’ is among my favourites.”  
  
“Yes,” she nods, “That works. Well, tell the little cretin that he’ll only fail if he doesn’t do his homework.”  
  
“I’ll make sure he knows that.” He nods, smiling. He turns and makes eye-contact with Ruby Lucas, who comes over immediately to take their order.  
  
“What do you want, love?” he asks, and watches with amusement as Belle’s cheeks flush at the endearment.   
  
“Um,” she turns to Ruby, “I’ll have a latte, please.”  
  
“Sure thing!” Ruby chirps, and turns to him, “And you, Mr Gold?”  
  
“Just black coffee, please, Miss Lucas” he even smiles at the waitress, and can’t help but enjoy the little shock of surprise on her face.  
  
“Coming right up!” how the girl manages to scamper away in those ridiculous heels is beyond him, but scamper she does.  
  
He turns back to Belle, and when he sees her hand resting on the table he cannot resist reaching out and covering it with his own. She glances down and smiles, that disbelieving surprise back in her eyes, and turns her hand over so he can hold it properly with his, palm to palm.  
  
They attract plenty of stares, but he’s used to that.   
  
She, however, is not. When their drinks arrive and their contact breaks, she glances around and catches the eyes of a few of their onlookers. “Everyone is staring at us.” She murmurs around her coffee cup.  
  
“They’re expecting me to eat you alive, like as not,” he replies, “I don’t think they expect to see me courting a bright young woman in daylight. More likely to skin you for your pelt.”  
  
He says it flippantly, not really thinking, but she jerks in surprise and the cup slips from her fingers. It lands on the floor with a little cracking noise, and she gasps in horror.  
  
“It was just a quip, love,” he raises an eyebrow, “Not serious.”  
  
She shakes her head, “I’m horribly clumsy,” she apologises, “I just… yeah, my hand slipped.” She slides from her seat and crouches to gather the broken pieces of the cup. Ruby comes to see what the trouble is, and kneels with her to survey the damage.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Belle makes an attempt at a smile, “It’s chipped.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Ruby brushes her off, “It’s one of Granny’s ugly old things. This is an excuse to buy replacements!”   
  
“Right,” Belle manages a proper smile this time, “Well, I’ll pay for the damage, it’s only fair-“ she stops when she feels Gold’s hand on her shoulder.  
  
“I’ll cover it,” he says, “Don’t worry.”   
  
Ruby stands, hands on her hips, “It’s fine, Mr Gold, it was worth five dollars max.”  
  
“Then here.” He hands her a twenty, “This should cover the damage and our drinks.” She gapes in surprise as he takes Belle’s hand again, and brings her to stand, “Fancy a walk, Belle?”  
  
She nods, but it’s a little tight, “Sure, let’s go.” He squeezes her hand encouragingly and lets him pull her from the diner.   
  
They walk in silence for a little way, before he finally has to ask “Are you alright?”  
  
“You… you didn’t have to do that.” She says, and he wonders at the little hard note in her voice.  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Pay for the damage.” She says, “I’m not destitute, you know, I can pay for myself.”  
  
“I never said you were, love,” he returns, mildly, “I was simply holding up my end of our deal.”  
  
“Oh?” she looks at him, one eyebrow arched, “And how do you figure that?”  
  
“I said I’d buy you a cup of coffee sometime.” He explains, “I bought you both coffee, and then the cup.”  
  
She stares at him, and he stops to look down at her, watching her try to hold her anger against the amusement he can see building behind her eyes. Finally, she gives up and lets out a reluctant little giggle, “Fine. Fine!” she throws up her free hand, and curls around his arm, her head on his shoulder, as they start to walk once more, “I bow to your superior word skills.”  
  
“There’s no shame in it,” he agrees cheerfully, “Many have tried and failed.”  
  
“Hmm,” she smiles up at him, and he wonders if she doesn’t already know the worst of his reputation, the acceptance in her gaze is so strong. “How about this?” she comes around in front of him, and leans up, and he bends willingly to kiss her slow and deep, her arms around his shoulders and his hands at her waist.  
  
He pulls them around a corner, so they are in a small alleyway and not in the public street, and he can kiss her deeper, try once more to devour her whole.   
  
She seems just as fervent, her hands coming to tangle once more in his hair, holding him as tight against her as possible. Out of the public sight, without the awkwardness of kissing in cars, he is free to mould her body against his, to clutch at her and plunder her mouth, make her moan and shudder against him as he had imagined for so long.  
  
Finally, they break apart for air, and she is staring up at him, “Many people tried and failed at that?”  
  
He frowns, shakes his head, “You are the first to try in a very long time, and you succeed wonderfully.”  
  
He doesn’t understand the bright smile on her face at that - she cannot have been asking if he was seeing someone else, cannot be in some strange way jealous for him - but he smiles back, pets her hair almost unconsciously, “This is a little intense for a first date, isn’t it?” He’s not sure if he’s apologising or merely commenting, but he’s aware that they’ve not known each other long, all things considered.  
  
“Is that what this is? Our first _date_?” she stares at him a moment, and then lets out a little giggle, shakes her head.  
  
“Well, what else is it?” he’s a little offended by her laughter, as if it is that ridiculous that she would be on a date with him. It is ridiculous, he’s aware of that, but he’d hoped she hadn’t noticed.  
  
“Well, I didn’t think you the type to date,” she replies, “Thought you’d be more likely to just haul me into your home and have your way with me.”  
  
“And whatever gave you that impression?” he’s frowning now, entirely unsure of what she’s getting at, of how he should react.  
  
“Everyone was so quick to warn me away from you any time I mentioned your name,” she shrugs, tightens her arms around his shoulders comfortingly, and absently toys with his hair. The small caress much to calm him down, as does the very fact of her closeness. He’ll never grow tired of the ability to touch her, not ever. “I assumed you were some kind of lecher underneath, ready to defile young women.”  
  
“And yet you still let me kiss you in your car,” He points out, a little puzzled, “Not exactly sending a message of fear and repulsion, that.”  
  
“Well,” she smiles, eyebrows raised, “I never said I had a problem with being defiled.”  
  
“You would have…” he trails off, the idea taking root in his mind, “Last night, you would have…”  
  
“You can’t be _looking_ for something serious, Rum,” she tells him, as if it’s obvious, “You have a son to raise and all your work, and… well, no one’s ever heard of youin an actual _relationship_ since… well, for a long time, at any rate.” She’s rambling again, and it’s still adorable, even as she tells him all the reasons he supposedly doesn’t want her, “I thought… I thought that if you’d… if you wanted me at all it would be a one-time kind of thing.”  
  
“You thought-“ he needs to stop repeating her, he needs to get his thoughts into one place so he can have this discussion with her. In an alleyway. With his hands tracing patterns through her coat against her waist, and her fingers tangled in the strands of hair at the back of his neck. It’s not a situation conductive to complex thought. “You know me a little, don’t you? What could make you believe I would just… that I would settle for one night?”  
  
“Settle?” she raises her eyebrows, “It’d be an indulgence, surely. Stupid little girl with a crush… and now you’re talking about _dating_.”  
  
“Yes,” he nods, decisively, because she’s being ridiculous and it’s time to set things straight, “Dating. As in… well, I’m perhaps a bit vintage to be your ‘boyfriend’, but words to that effect. As in meals in restaurants and nights on the sofa. As in this…”   
  
He leans down and kisses her once, softly and sweetly, not allowing it to develop further. It is a kiss to show something more than passion, something deeper and more important. It is a kiss designed to show her that he could love her, one day, if given the chance.  
  
“Oh.” She flushes in pleasure, “Yes, that… I’d like that. And don’t go giving me speeches about age differences, boyfriend suits you just fine, thank you.”  
  
“Hmm,” he smiles, brushes her hair back from her face, and once again she leans into his fingertips. She presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his palm, and he stares, unable to believe at all. “Girlfriend.” He tests out the word, “Yes, I like that.”  
  
—  
  
 _Three months later_  
  
Parent/teacher conference night was never going to be easy with Bae’s record. Any teacher he could have had would have spent their meeting trying to find words that meant ‘troublemaker’ but sounded positive.  
  
That would have been awkward.  
  
Gold finds it much worse, however, sitting in an empty classroom, behind the desk with ‘Miss Belle French’ on the sign, smiling like a concerned parent at this particular teacher. Who is also his girlfriend.  
  
She had insisted they do this properly. Said that there’re procedures and that people will talk. Principal Vincent has no rules against parents of students dating teachers, but there is no reason to stir things up unnecessarily.  
  
So there she sits, prim and proper in her summer dress and cardigan, hair piled on top of her head, hands clasped in front of her. “So, Mr Gold,” she smiles, solicitously, as if the very same man hadn’t come downstairs only three days hence to find her in the kitchen, clad only in her underwear and one of his shirts, “How do you feel Benjamin is doing in class?”  
  
“Well, Miss French,” he begins, and he tries - oh, he tries - to keep the smirk off his lips and the gleam out of his eyes. He fails, but it’s an admirable effort, if he does say so himself. “Bae is enjoying school, I think. He gets more help with his homework, these days, so I think that’s helping.”  
  
Belle grins, “It’s so important for parents to have an active role in their child’s education.”  
  
Okay, he thinks, that one she did on purpose, “Indeed,” he returns, mildly, “I have tried to take a more… active role in Bae’s schooling recently.” He practically drawls this last, eyes fixed on hers, one hand absently stroking the handle of his cane.  
  
Her eyes flick from his to his mouth - he licks his lips, on purpose, watches her cheeks flush that delicious shade of pink - and he knows she remembers all the things he can do with his mouth on her.  
  
“And it shows,” she nods, busies herself with her papers to hide her blushes, and he settles back in his chair, “His grades are some of the best in his class; he’d be top if he applied himself better.”  
  
Perhaps that is the reason she insists upon this formality: she needs to tell him things teacher to parent without him getting offended as her boyfriend.  
  
“He’s trying his best, Miss French.” He says, in defence of his boy, “He’s working harder this year than ever before.”  
  
“And I am impressed, believe me,” she nods, her eyes clearer now that he’s stopped trying to tease her, “I just feel that if he were to focus all his efforts on school instead of  on making a nuisance of himself… perhaps get a hobby or something if he feels bored or frustrated, then he could be getting the highest grades.”  
  
He nods, trying to remember that, right now, she is Bae’s teacher and not his father’s girlfriend. She is trying to be helpful and objective; he must do the same. “What would you recommend, Miss French? He’s not interested in arts and crafts, if that’s what you’re thinking…”  
  
“Perhaps something…” she sighs, “He mentioned that he enjoys computers, and yours is ancient at best… how… fuck, this is awkward…”  
  
“Miss French,” he can’t keep the smirk off his face, “I hardly think that that’s appropriate language in a parent/teacher conference.”  
  
She shoots him a look, “Shut up, Rum. You know what I’m talking about.”  
  
“Indeed.” He inclines his head, “I hate the dratted things, as you might recall… I’ll look into getting Bae something a little better for his birthday.”  
  
“It might be a start,” she smiles, “He needs something to do, a way of releasing his creative energy.”  
  
“As you’ve said before,” he nods, “Well, thank you Miss French.”  
  
He stands to leave, holds out his hand for her to shake, and she smiles. Then she catches him completely off-guard and pulls him by his hand across the desk, so she can kiss him instead.   
  
His leg is protesting, but he doesn’t care one bit.  
  
“Little unprofessional, wouldn’t you say, dear?” he teases, when she pulls away and caresses his cheek with her free hand.  
  
“Be thankful the Hudsons are waiting outside,” she murmurs, “I don’t have time to live out a certain fantasy right now.”  
  
He chuckles, remembering similar thoughts he’d had months back, before she even knew his first name. Thoughts that, admittedly, had sprung into his mind a few times when she’d told him about this little meeting.  
  
He’d love to live out a few of them, too, but there’d be a queue forming outside and people would talk. Perhaps, he thinks, next time he can take her last appointment of the night, and they’ll have time to do more than kiss and rile each other up.  
  
So he settles for kissing her again, sucking on her tongue in his mouth the way he knows she likes, and chancing a brush of his hand against her breast through her dress, as her hand on his cheek absently strokes his cheekbone with the side of her thumb. She moans, and he tugs on her lower lip with his teeth as they break apart for air.  
  
“You’re coming for dinner tonight, correct?” he asks, when he has breath again.  
  
She can manage no more than a little sound of assent, and a nod of her head.  
  
“Then I shall see you at home, dear,” he says, and enjoys the little whimper she makes as, with one last little kiss to her lips, he breaks all contact, and strides from the room.  
  
He has to look back, when the door closes and he can just see her through the window pane.  
  
She is stood at her desk, tidying the escaped curls of her hair and sorting the papers, the order messed up by their activities. He sees her touch her fingers to her lips just once, and smile a sort of unbelieving, dazed smile. The kind he knows he wears any morning when he wakes up and she’s stayed over, curled in his bed with her dark hair on the stark white pillows.  
  
It’s been three months since they started dating, since she declared him her boyfriend, and he knew even then that he could love her, if given the chance.  
  
Someday soon, he will tell her.   
  
He loves her so much, in that one glance through the door window back inside, that he can hardly breathe.


End file.
